Closer
by zoe-skye
Summary: Sherlock is incredibly silent and distant for weeks and John is pushed to mental and physical limits while mentally battling his feelings for Sherlock. T for Language. (This is my second fanfic. The first one was "The Only Coat" (also Sherlock) and people were lovely about it so it has convinced me to keep writing. Let's see how it goes! I love RRs too!)
1. Chapter 1: Silence and Fatigue

Something was amiss in 221B Baker Street. Everything had seemed to slow down, gradually grinding to a halt. Sherlock wasn't himself and John was at a loss about what to do about it. In the beginning John was able to at least have Sherlock look at case notes, to which he would often respond with his favourite phrase of 'obvious', but things were changing. The unusual cases, the cases that needed some thought, were being ignored. If Sherlock looked at the notes at all, he would likely respond with an indifferent 'I don't know.'; a phrase that more or less didn't exist regarding Sherlock till now.

The doctor in John had always subconsciously kept a record of Sherlock's sleeping and eating patterns but in the past few weeks he had been carefully recording everything to do with Sherlock. The information lay in a small notebook that was always kept on him. And now Sherlock wasn't eating at all. Before it had been difficult enough to have him eat the necessary standard of calories to prevent things as simple as dizzy spells and fainting, but now it was impossible.

The days dragged on as Sherlock became more and more distant. His table experiments were looking neglected and despite John's encouragement, which was notably very rare until now, they looked to be staying that way. Specimens which had been worked on for many months were left forgotten to the point of filling the apartment with an awful stench. When John asked if he could throw them away, the question was met with a nonchalant shrug, stunning John to complete silence for many hours. He grew more and more worried with the stress beginning to effect his sleep. There was also the constant press from Lestrade, Mycroft and other potential customers adding to his ragged appearance and anxiety and he was truly suffering. Before the fourth week was up, he knew it was time to take action before Sherlock pushed both his and John's body too far.

On this particular day, Sherlock was distant as ever, watching the somewhat torrential rain pour down onto the street and the unfortunate pedestrians below. John walked into the living room looking worse for wear after an unsettled attempt at sleep. Looking at Sherlock, he made the effort to sound as cheery as possible with his morning greeting.

"Good morning Sherlock! It's raining a storm outside, isn't it?"

John recognised it was a dismal attempt at conversation and wasn't surprised that silence was his only response. Moving into the kitchen, he frowned as he searched his weary mind like the night before for ideas that would more or less force Sherlock out of the house. The only somewhat coherent one consisted of a mental institute and while that almost sounded like it could work, he deemed it too risky for now. But for how long it would stay that way, he didn't know.

"Would you like a tea?" John called from the kitchen.

There was no response so, with a sigh, he began making one for Sherlock anyway. Letting his mind wander as he poured the boiling water into the teapot, he wondered almost wishfully what it would be like to have a normal roommate. Naturally, he knew he would get bored of it quickly, especially after his sporadic and (lets face it) crazy lifestyle but it was always nice to pretend.

John was caught up in his daydream but it wasn't long before a scolding pain tore him back to reality.

"Oh FUCK!" he swore before biting his tongue to stop the stream of curses that would've followed. He'd burned a significant part of his hand, including his index finger and thumb with boiling water. Dropping the kettle a little harder than he should've, it splattered more boiling water across his shirt, narrowly missing his face. He clutched his hand frantically and lunged towards the sink in the desperate attempt to douse his hand in cold water.

"John, let me."

Sherlock had appeared out of no where and was turning on the tap whilst gently holding John's injured hand. John started at his silent appearance but allowed Sherlock to take over.

With surprising care, Sherlock turned on the water on a low setting and held John's hand under it while he searched the cupboards his long arms could reach. His hands found a bowl and he moved John's hand slowly from the flow of water, filling up the bowl before gently lowering the burnt hand into it.

"Excess pressure from the water can damage the skin cells further, preventing a faster recovery", he said in a dull voice.

John simply nodded, not registering the words, the pain of such a severe burn making him bite his lip to suppress any gasps at the cold water hitting the burns.

"Stay." Sherlock commanded. John again only nodded with a grimace, inwardly cursing at himself for being so clumsy and stupid.

"It's the fatigue,' he reassured himself. 'I wouldn't have done it otherwise. I just need a decent sleep already."

Sherlock swept almost gracefully back into the room with a damp cloth, a towel and a small tub of what looked like some medical grade ointment. Removing John's hand slowly and pat drying it with the towel, he unscrewed the ointment and started lathering it on. John unconsciously hissed at the sting it caused, cursing himself further for looking so weak. Sherlock looked up at him, studying his face. John caught his eye and Sherlock quickly averted his own, refocusing on the burnt hand but handling it significantly more gently.

"What's going on Sherlock?"

John stood their, staring at Sherlock's face, waiting for a response. When none came, he continued.

"You've seemingly not moved an inch in the past four weeks. You've sat in that chair for 27 days straight, every day, every hour. Why?"

Still no response. Silence enveloped them but John didn't let in linger.

"And then I injure myself, only a small burn too, and suddenly you're out? You're active, you are helping, it's almost like you suddenly care abo-... "

John stopped suddenly at Sherlock's unexpected reaction of dropping his hand somewhat painfully and returning to the living room. With a murmured curse, John returned to applying the ointment onto his burns himself. No doubt Sherlock had acquired this from the lab, possibly after burning himself a number of times during experiments. The idea of Sherlock injuring himself so carelessly seemed impossible but John saw no other reason as to why he'd have it on hand.

Walking to his bedroom, John pulled out a small medical kit and finished dressing his hand before returning to the living room. Sherlock was back in his chair, his long legs curled up in front of them with his fingers curling around his knees. John leant against the doorway, supporting his injured hand tentatively whist studying Sherlock.

Sherlock looked worst for wear. He needed sleep, he needed food, he needed a shower.

"_He needs someone..._" John thought before he could stop himself.

John turned away quickly so Sherlock wouldn't be able to see the traces of pink creeping over his cheeks. Why had he thought that? He'd suppressed those feelings long ago; they were not okay to be feeling, John was not okay with them. Gathering his composure, he turned back around to see Sherlock staring at him. As Sherlock's ice blue eyes seemed to pierce his mind and search through his thoughts, John forced himself not to show any inclination that he was uncomfortable under Sherlock's keen gaze.

"Sherlock..." he rasped, shocked at the way the words barely escaped his throat. Clearing it, he tried again.

"Sherlock, we need to talk. Please."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly and he turned his head to resume staring out the window.

"Please Sherlock..." continued John, not even bothering to keep the needy tone out of his voice. "I really do need to talk to you. We need to talk. I need to know what is going on."

The sigh that escaped Sherlock was barely audible but John heard it, and noticed that Sherlock seemed to curl further into himself. John walked slowly forward, still nursing his tender hand, as Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at him.

"I suppose I do owe you an explanation. John, please sit down."


	2. Chapter 2: Confusion

John sat down slowly, never taking his eyes off Sherlock's face. Once he had made himself comfortable, Sherlock turned his eyes back onto him. They looked older than usual, worn out and somewhat confused. John sat in silence, waiting for Sherlock to begin but there was no inclination that he was about to start spilling his heart out. Not that John really expected that but admittedly, what with the confusion of the past weeks, he wasn't sure what to expect.

"I'm tired John." Sherlock stated in a monotonous voice.

John started at the sound and his tired brain took a little longer to register what he'd heard. Sherlock was tired? They should get jackets, considering they were in the same club. He almost chuckled at his awful joke but instead kept his composure so Sherlock wouldn't be offended. Searching Sherlock's face, he only found exhaustion written all over his features. His skin had gathered lines, creases that accented the dark shadows that had formed under his eyes. The area around his mouth seemed to realise it had been a while since Sherlock had smiled, looking taunt and old. His already pale skin had become pasty, and it was then that John realised how unwell Sherlock really was.

"Tired of what exactly? I understand you're physically tired considering you hardly sleep but what else?"

Sherlock sighed and looked away before continuing.

"I feel I'm losing touch with myself. I'm ... I'm having second thoughts about everything I've chosen to do."

John couldn't help the shocked look that briefly appeared on his face. Sherlock was unsure? How could that be? He was always the most sure of all people John knew, he was always so definite about everything he decided. Why was this suddenly changing? Had something gone wrong?

"Why this sudden change of heart?" John asked with a frown. "I won't lie and say this isn't confusing for me. You've always been the most self assured person I know so why has this suddenly changed? Did something happen?"

Sherlock looked up at John with pain in his ice blue eyes before looking away.

_'Did I just see... tears?_' John asked himself, confused._ 'What the bloody hell is going on?_'

John reached out and held Sherlock's arm gently. Sherlock watched John's hand on his arm before taking it between his own. John's heart raced at the touch and he fought the sudden urge to tear his hand away. He didn't need to be fighting his feelings right now, they were the last thing he needed on his mind. He didn't however get long to dwell before Sherlock broke the silence once again.

"I solve mysteries. Why? I have a brilliant mind, no one can deny that, so why am I not applying it in places that would result in far more beneficial outcomes? I could study microbiology and create vaccines to cure the world's most crippling diseases yet I chase madmen around in circles. Why do I do this John?" Sherlock turned to stare into John's eyes. "Why?"

A single tear slowly slid down Sherlock's face and that was when John saw it. Sherlock was scared. And he was scared of himself.

"Sherlock. You're no killer."

Sherlock closed his eyes slowly, an uncommon look of sadness on his face. John grabbed both of Sherlock's hands and shook them firmly. He hated Sherlock looking so weak, so unlike himself. It wasn't okay and it had to stop.

"Sherlock look at me."

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and stared at John with a fearful expression. The tears were more rapid now. John quickly brushed a couple away before continuing.

"I know you. You're... You're my best friend and I know what you're capable of but murder is not it. Why think this? Did someone give you this idea?"

Sherlock didn't respond and suddenly it was Johns turn to be fearful. Who could have had enough influence on Sherlock to manipulate his mind like this, to make him turn on himself? Obviously not Donovan considering she'd been saying it for as long as John could remember and Sherlock had continuously been indifferent about it so it must've been someone purely influential. But who, besides himself, could be influential in Sherlock's life? Or maybe he didn't seem influential now but had been before...

"Was it Mycroft?" John asked suddenly. Sherlock looked up with a confused look.

"How did you kno-..."

"Because he's your big brother." John interrupted. "Naturally he's going to have some influence over you but you do realise he is wonderful at talking absolute rubbish right? Don't let anything he says get to you, he's not worth the time."

"But I a-..." Sherlock begun.

"No Sherlock." John interrupted again. "We cannot afford to have you think like this and so I'm not going to let you. Now I'm coming to make some tea."

John stood up and handed over some tissues before walking into the kitchen and filling up the kettle to boil. As kettle filled, John rubbed his face with his free hand. This was playing with his mind as much as Sherlock's and it hurt. They were both exhausted and needed some reprise from it all but both knew that wasn't going to happen until Sherlock started to get better.

He saw something in the corner of his eye but before he could turn around completely, he was slammed into the wall behind him with an arm pinned against his neck which quickly began restricting his breathing. Sherlock stood over him with his teeth bared and eyes glaring and pressed harder against John's throat. John looked at Sherlock's crazed eyes, confused, as his vision began deteriorating.

"You have no idea what I'm capable of. Stop pretending you do."

Letting go of John who stumbled forward, dizzy and partially blind from lack of oxygen, he stormed out of the apartment. Water had spilled all over the kitchen floor from the fallen kettle and as John sank slowly to the ground, gasping for air, he felt his pants become wet. He didn't even acknowledge the water however. His mind was racing as fast as it could despite it's initial sluggishness from just being suffocated to near unconsciousness. Why had Sherlock done this? He'd never laid a finger on John before now in such a hostile way, what the hell was going on?

_'And since when was Sherlock so bloody strong_?' John thought to himself, rubbing his raw neck.

He had to find Sherlock as soon as he could but first, he needed to see someone else.

Mycroft.


	3. Chapter 3: Calls and Crosswords

_**(Author's Note: Hiya! Thanks for all your support and stuff! This is a short chapter but the next one will be out in a jiffy, I promise! 3)**_

Screaming.

All John heard was awful, high pitched screaming and it wasn't long before his voice joined in. His head was filled with all this horrible, scary noise and his sobbing soon took over. He begged it to stop, he pleaded with them. Tears fell down his face faster than he could brush them away and suddenly, he was blind.

"NO!" John yelled, his voice hoarse, his eyes flying open.

He was sitting upright in bed dripping with sweat and tears. Panting, he tore off his covers and stumbled to his window wanting to see the sky, wanting to distract his mind. It was overcast as usual but he could see the outline of the moon filtering through the clouds. He watched it until his breathing slowed and his sweat had dried before slowly getting back into bed. He didn't understand his dream but it was rare that he ever did. They were usually just a mix of pain, confusion and screaming. Always screaming.

'I'll be lucky to fall asleep again.' John muttered to himself as he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes. However, it was mere minutes before his chest was slowly rising and falling, slumber taking him.

A dull sunlight barely seemed to fill John's room a few hours later but it was enough to stir him from his fitful rest. Instead of moving however, he just lay there for a while, wondering what to do about everything. Would Sherlock be home? John desperately wanted him to be but he was also worried about what would happen. Would he be attacked again? The level of acceptance John had for that was ridiculous but he could live with it. He had learned to deal with Sherlock's type of crazy.

Moving downstairs slowly, he looked towards the chair Sherlock had permanently occupied for the past month. This morning it was empty, untouched. John walked over to it and lightly touched the seat. Cold. John deducted that Sherlock hadn't sat in the chair since yesterday so maybe he had made the sane decision to return to his bed.

_'I doubt it.'_ John thought to himself with a touch of scorn as he moved towards Sherlock's bedroom._ 'Sherlock and sanity? Not possible._'

Slowly opening Sherlock's bedroom door, he quickly realised that this room had been heavily neglected for a while. Dust lined the shelves where specimens waited for attention and...

"GUH! What the bloody hell...?!"

The sentence caught in John's throat as he started to gag. A vile smell had escaped with the opening of Sherlock's room and it took John but a moment to slam the door shut before he quickly moved away, coughing and trying not to wretch. He didn't want to know. He just didn't so he quickly made his way back past the living room and into the kitchen to distract himself with a cup of tea.

He needed to see Mycroft today; that was his top priority and he needed to do it before he thought too much about the situation and started getting angry. And he would get angry. Angry enough that tearing off Mycroft's head would seem like a completely justified action. So he kept himself distracted by quickly showering, having a bite to eat and changing before he decided to call Mycroft.

"John..." said a voice drawled on the other line.

John interrupted before Mycroft could continue.

"Mycroft, we need to talk immediately. Where can we meet?"

"John, unlike most people, I am a man of extreme influence and I assure you I'm bus-"

"Not now you're not. You're going to talk to me. Where can we meet?"

Despite Mycroft's sigh, he clearly understood that John wouldn't let off without a meeting considering how harsh he sounded. He fiddled with the pen he had just been using to distract himself from boredom with the daily crosswords. Sherlock may find them pointless but Mycroft could respect their use to fill in countless tedious hours which he had in the tonne.

"52 Beakley Street. A small cafe by the name of Bello."

"Good. Be there in half an hour."

John looked at his phone, scowling before looking over to Sherlock's chair and pressing a button on his phone to end the call.

"Idiot." He muttered.

"I'd say likewise." said a tinny voice on loudspeaker from John's phone.

John stared at it with disbelief before stuttering Mycroft's name.

"Yes John, I believe you hit the loudspeaker button rather than the end call button." drawled Mycroft, a smirk obvious on his face purely from his tone of voice.

"Oh bloody hel- ... HALF AN HOUR MYCROFT!" John yelled into his phone before making the conscious effort to properly hang up.

Rubbing his eyes with his palms, he shook his head. That had been too embarrassing and he'd be seeing the man he just insulted face to face soon enough.

Today had started out rough.


	4. Chapter 4: Tea and Biscuits

A cab swerved with trained precision to stop in front of a small Italian café. A man with a strange knitted sweater climbed out and handed cash to the driver through his window before swiftly walking into the café. A small Italian man greeted him with a big smile and a handshake before leading him towards the back of the shop to a table where Mycroft sat and walking away.

"John."

John didn't even ask how the man knew who John was and where to take him. He just sat down in front of Mycroft and poured himself a glass of water. Drinking it slowly, he looked around at the café. It was a beautiful place, top quality and most likely very expensive. Of course Mycroft would choose such a place. The beautifully elaborate paintings looked like something that should be displayed in the Louvre but then again, John didn't know much about art. He looked at Mycroft's suit before glancing at his own sweater. He would also willingly admit that he wasn't much of a fashion guru but he was perfectly fine with that. He'd keep his odd animal designs thank you very much.

They sat in silence for several minutes with John staring at his glass before Mycroft's impatience finally got the best of him.

"Why exactly are we here John?" he asked, annoyance clear on his face.

John slowly drank the last of his water and put the glass down softly, still staring at it.

"What did you say to Sherlock?" he responded softly, looking up with a blank face to Mycroft who, in turn, flicked his eyes up in impatience.

"John, I've known Sherlock all his life so naturally I have told him many things. You'll have to be more specific."

"Sherlock attacked me yesterday after he completely ignored the entire world for a month. Before he decided to attack me however, he mentioned that he whole reason he had become so reclusive is because you said something to him." John's hands clenched and unclenched unconsciously.

Mycroft watched John's hands, frowning slightly before taking a sip of his tea and pouring John a cup of his own.

"I apologise for Sherlock's behaviour, I assume you weren't seriously injured. At least I hope you weren't. But I'm sorry I cannot help you John, nothing immediately comes to mind about what I could have said to upset him. I wouldn't consider myself particularly influential regardless," Mycroft finished his sentence with a touch of scorn. "Sugar?"

"No I don't want any of your bloody sugar Mycroft, I want to know what you said to him! You're his big brother, of course you have influence over him, you'll have it over him for the rest of your life!" John slammed his fist onto the table out of frustration. His own patience was wearing thin, he was sick of people telling him half truths or being plain unhelpful. He wasn't like Sherlock, he couldn't see the tiniest of clues so at the moment, he was just being left in the dark.

The small Italian man quietly walked up with concerned eyes before placing a small plate of biscuits and pastries in the middle of the table. Questions were plainly written all over his face but he kept his silence, smiling sympathetically at them both before quickly walking away. John and Mycroft both watched him walk away before looking at the plate.

"Biscuit?" asked Mycroft, waving his free hand towards the plate. John only glared in response. Mycroft sighed and put down his cup of tea, frowns creasing his brow.

"John, I don't know. I don't know what it was I said. The most recent times I've spoken to him we barely spoke at all, except for directly after he... you know. 'Came back from the dead'." Mycroft rolled his eyes but John could tell from Mycroft's tone that the whole ordeal had hit him close to home too.

John looked away, angry that the event had even been brought up. Mycroft continued to look mostly disinterested with a touch of annoyance shown with the way his lips pinched together. He'd given up his crossword time for this and despite how obvious it was that John cared for Sherlock in a more than friendly way, John was just too sensitive right now to poke fun at unless he wanted a black eye. Mycroft wasn't stupid, he knew what John was capable of and he wasn't willing to take such a risk for a brief chuckle.

"Surely you remember something..." John pleaded. He didn't care if he looked desperate, he was too worried about Sherlock. He just wanted to known what the hell was going on. "Maybe you said his career wasn't the right choice or that I shouldn't be in his life or that he didn't care for anyone?"

"No, no and no. I don't recall saying any of the like. I especially wouldn't say the latter, John, when I could easily argue that you're the best thing that has happened to him."

John stared at his face with scepticism, unsure whether he should believe Mycroft's surprisingly kind words. However, he could only find the same blank face Mycroft put on whenever he was being completely serious. John looked down at the table and clenched his eyes shut as hard as he could. He was still angry at Mycroft, despite what he'd just said. He'd hurt Sherlock somehow yet didn't care enough about what he'd recently said to him to work out how. For once he wished that they'd shared some kind of brotherly love.

"Well it seems like everything that needed to be said has been said, however disinteresting," droned Mycroft in the most bored voice he could fathom. He was worried about Sherlock but he wouldn't admit it. No point, especially when he had no idea if Sherlock had lashed out because of something he may have said.

John scowled at Mycroft before pushing back his chair.

"Thank you for your time Mycroft, considering we both know how precious it is. The tea was lovely."

He began walking briskly away before turning around and walking bzck to the table. Taking a biscuit and pastry off the plate, he simply nodded at Mycroft before marching outside to hail down a cab. People outside the café stared at his sweater but he took no notice; his mind was elsewhere and the pastry was filling the hole in his stomach quite nicely.

Mycroft looked at John's cup of tea which had been left untouched. He hummed quietly before pulling out his newspaper from the laptop bag he had brought and flipping to the puzzles. John was clearly incredibly upset,despite his constant hunger but Mycroft had crosswords to attend to.


End file.
